


Knife Edge

by FabulaRasa



Category: DCU
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FabulaRasa/pseuds/FabulaRasa





	Knife Edge

"Fucking ridiculous, is what it is." Lantern had his arms crossed and was standing in the middle of the room, glaring like the petulant child he was. 

"It's not ridiculous," Bruce managed through gritted teeth. "Opening relations with the Qorell is the wisest course for now, as we discussed at our meeting."

"Yeah? Well excuse me for being a little too busy fending off attacks on, you know, _the entire galaxy_ to make every single goddamn meeting. But we've talked about the Qorell, you know Lantern intel on them, what the fuck makes you think this is a good idea?"

Bruce's jaw tightened. Flash was glancing nervously between the two of them, and Clark was frowning. The rest of the room was silent, looking fixedly at the table or the floor. "The matter is closed," Bruce said. "The League has spoken on this, and—"

"What? Excuse me, but I didn't notice the _League_ in there speaking to the Qorelli piece-of-shit ambassador, I just noticed _you_. Since when are you the League?"

"Enough!" Bruce barked. "Your behavior in there embarrassed the League. In public is not the place for our disagreements. If you have a problem with—"

"Of course I have a problem, which you well knew! And too fucking bad if you don't like to be disagreed with—I have an opinion, and I'm damn well going to voice it, no matter what room I'm standing in."

"You will respect the consensus of the League," Bruce said, though his jaw was almost too tight to move. 

"Oh, give me a break, I've had just about enough of this Star Chamber shit. I'll disagree with you where and when I please, because get this through your head, the League is a democracy, and my voice counts just as much as yours."

"Lantern," Clark cut in. "No one was suggesting otherwise, and if—"

"I was," Bruce growled. 

"Oh yeah? What a surprise."

Bruce's fists tightened in his gauntlets. "In front of the Qorelli ambassador was no place to air our disagreements."

"I see, so I'm supposed to suck your cock in there too?" 

The whipcrack of the backhand across Lantern's face was so fast, so powerful, that Bruce almost did not connect it with his own arm for a second or two. He heard the sound before he was even aware his arm had moved. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound emerged. Somehow the only sound he was hearing was the heavy _thwack_ of his gauntlet, and he kept hearing it, over and over.

If the room had been silent before, it was frozen now.

Lantern hadn't taken his eyes off Bruce. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, and Bruce saw the small smear of blood on the white glove. "I—" Bruce began, but his throat choked him off.

Lantern strode from the room without a backward glance.

"Go," Clark said, and it was a voice to be obeyed. "You're done here."

Bruce turned and headed to the side door, the one that led away from the main corridors. _I didn't do that, I don't understand what's happened_ , he tried to say, but there was no sound coming out, and the words didn't make sense anyway.

* * *

He stood on the doormat and pressed the buzzer and waited. He knew there was a better than even chance the door wouldn't open, but he knew he had no choice but to stand here and wait. The rain had set in about an hour ago, and the wind was gusting down the open breezeway. He should have worn an overcoat of some sort, but his thoughts had been elsewhere. Another gust of wind spattered rain on his shoes.

The door opened, and Hal had his hand on the doorframe. He was just staring at Bruce. Bruce licked his lips. "May I come in," he said.

"No," Hal said. "Not really." Bruce nodded. That was only fair, and it was enough that Hal had opened the door. 

"I didn't come to apologize," he began.

"No, of course not, why would you do that."

"I didn't come to apologize," he persisted, "because there is no apology possible. An apology would be an outrage, and forgiveness a joke. I don't ask for what you shouldn't give."

Hal was silent at that, and Bruce raised his eyes for the first time. He made himself do it, because anything else was cowardice, but he was not prepared for the lurch of nausea at the sight of Hal's face.

The right side of Hal's face was a vibrant explosion of purple and blue. Of course it would be—he had hit him with his gauntlet on, full force, right on the cheekbone. He had felt the connection with bone, when he had struck. Orbital fracture, at the very least. 

It wouldn't have been so bad, if Hal had just countered. And here was the thing, here was the reason for the rising tide of sick in his stomach: Hal had not countered, because he had not actually believed Bruce would hit him. Hal's combat instincts were incredibly quick. More than quick; they were ferocious. Bruce had sparred with him, had fought alongside him for years, and he knew everything there was to know about Hal's ability to counter, about the quickness of a pilot's reflexes. And a backhand—that was the easiest of all moves to read. A punch to the face, that required less preparation, and was easier to conceal until the last moment. But a backhand? Everything in Hal would have seen that coming. His body had to have known, had to have read the move being telegraphed by Bruce's body. But his mind had not believed it, had not accepted it. If Hal had just turned his face at the last second, if he had been able to believe the evidence of his own eyes. . .

He hadn't so much as turned his face away, because he had trusted Bruce, to the last possible second and beyond. And so the full brutal force of Bruce's gauntlet had shattered the side of his face.

He swallowed down the nausea and forced himself to speak. "However," he said hoarsely. "I think you deserve to know what happened today, and why. I don't have any excuse, but an explanation is not the same as an excuse."

"I think I have all the explanation I need, thanks. The only thing I'm not clear on is whether it pisses you off more that I outed you, or that everyone now knows you've been fucking me."

"The intrusion of my personal life into a public space," Bruce said carefully, "did. . . anger me, but that is not the explanation you deserve." 

Hal was silent, which was probably all the encouragement he was going to get. Bruce reached into his jacket and pulled out three pill bottles. He stood there holding them. In his head, when he had thought about this, he had been standing inside Hal's apartment and had at least had a place to set them down. It was a bit more awkward, standing on the doormat.

"These are the medications I take, on a daily basis," he said. This part was easier if he was not actually looking at Hal. "For bipolar disorder. Two weeks ago I stopped taking them. It isn't an excuse. But I thought you deserved to know."

Hal shifted in the doorway. "Why," he said.

"Because I wouldn't have you think that my actions today were representative of what I think about you, or about—"

"No," Hal said. "Why did you stop taking your meds." There was another gust of wind, and the rain this time splattered Bruce's jacket and the side of his face. Hal opened the door. "Get in," he said. "You look pathetic."

Bruce stepped inside, but Hal stood with crossed arms at the doorway into the rest of the apartment, so apparently the foyer was as far as he was allowed to go. Bruce set the pill bottles down on the hall table, in case Hal wanted to inspect them. He saw Hal reading their labels. "So answer the question," Hal said. "Why did you stop?"

No one had ever accused Hal of being slow; he had obviously picked up on Bruce's hesitation at that particular question. But this humiliation, too, was deserved. "I stopped for the reason that all people with mental illness stop," he said. "I convinced myself that I was normal. That I could be normal. That I no longer needed the meds."

"Right," Hal said. "But why now, was my question. Something must have made you stop. What was it?"

Bruce's cheekbones prickled and burned with the shame of it, but then he thought of Hal's cheekbone. He wondered if Hal had taken some pain meds, or if anyone had looked at his injury. He wondered if Hal had lied about what had happened. "I stopped. . . because of us," he said, fumbling for the words. "Because I thought that. . . being in a relationship meant that I had. . . recovered, to a degree. Because I didn't want to have to. . . tell you about my problem. And because I thought that you deserved to be with. . . someone normal."

The silence this time was so long he didn't think Hal was going to speak again. When he found the courage to glance up, Hal was just watching him, his face a curious blank. "A relationship," Hal said, finally. "Okay. Here is where I get confused. We've fucked maybe ten, eleven times in the last eight weeks. That about right?"

"Yes."

"Any time we spend together consists of fucking each other's brains out. Correct?"

"Yes."

"So where the hell do you get the idea that we are in some kind of relationship?"

It was no more than he deserved. It didn't mean it was less of a knife in the gut. A sad, dysfunctional piece of shit, that was what he was. He had been the idiot who had thought every caress had meant something, that they were communicating in the only way they could, that. . .

Two days ago, his cock had been in Hal's mouth. It hadn't been fast, like most of their times together; Hal had been taking it agonizingly slow, and Bruce had been at the point of breaking. Even with a cock in his mouth, Hal wasn't going to give up control of anything. Bruce had been boneless against the wall. He had reached down and brushed his thumb over Hal's cheek, and Hal had leaned into his hand, however briefly. It was the same cheek he had shattered with his gauntlet, less than forty-eight hours later. Whatever humiliation he felt right now, it was more than deserved.

"I'm just saying, if that was what you wanted, you could maybe have shared that with me."

 _I don't know how to do that_ , would have been the true answer. Why, why had he come here tonight. He could have left well enough alone. Lantern would have hated him forever, but anything would be better than his pity.

"Okay," Hal sighed. "You clearly have no fucking idea how this works, do you?"

"I. . ." Bruce began. He was at a loss. He wasn't even sure what they were talking about now.

"Here's how this goes," Hal was saying. "You're going to do two things for me."

Bruce nodded. The language of recompense was one he understood. "You're going to do a better job of communicating," Hal said. "This whole relationship thing being the prime example. I mean, if that's what you want—if that's what we're doing here—then that's fine, it's more than fine, it's great. It's just that we need to be on the same page, all right?"

Bruce blinked at him. He didn't quite understand what he was hearing. Had Hal just. . . what exactly was he saying? "And the second thing is this. You go back on your meds, and if you ever want to stop again, for any reason, you talk about it first, with me. I'm not saying I'm going to have any worthwhile medical opinion to offer, or anything like that. I'm just saying, you talk about it. This would go back to that whole communication thing we're going to get started here. Got it?"

"You. . ." Bruce tried through a suddenly dry throat. "I don't understand."

"I know," Hal said. His voice was strangely gentle. "I completely get that you have no idea what is happening here. You are such a fucking idiot."

"Yes," Bruce said. His traitorous throat would not allow more.

"Go home. I'm still pissed as hell, and I'm gonna be for a bit. I'll call you when I'm ready, okay?"

He needed to move, needed to say something. Needed to be doing anything other than standing here frozen. "I didn't. . . ask you to forgive me," he choked out.

"I know," Hal said. His voice was still gentle. "But sometimes you get what you didn't ask for. I didn't ask to be in love with an emotionally retarded fascist ninja, but what can you do. Yeah, that's my little insight of the day, since it's sharing time. Figured that one out about point-five seconds after you smacked the shit out of me, so how's that for timing. It's like Jagger says, you can't always get what you want."

"Richards," Bruce murmured.

"Excuse me?"

"Jagger was lead vocals, but it was Keith Richards who wrote that song."

"Oh my God." Hal was staring at him incredulously. "You just can't stop yourself, can you?"

"I was simply pointing it out. You would have preferred to be wrong?"

Hal threw back his head and laughed. He laughed so hard he leaned against the wall for support. Bruce didn't know what was going on, and he had no idea how to read Hal's expression as he looked at him—bemused, exasperated, enraged? "Go home," Hal said again. He was still smiling. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"I. . . all right." He picked up the pill bottles and slipped them back in his jacket. Hal was watching him, that strange smile still on his face. Bruce didn't want to walk out the door. He had no idea what had happened here. He had come here tonight knowing his life was destroyed, and now. . . it had for some reason been handed back to him.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I still don't understand."

"I know," Hal sighed. "Look. You fucked up. You _really_ fucked up. Sooner or later, it's gonna be my turn, and I will massively fuck up. And you know what you're going to do then?"

Bruce shook his head. "You're going to remember this," Hal said. "Because this is how it works. This is the deal. Got it?"

Bruce looked at the carpet, because that was what you did when confronted with the mercy you didn't deserve, the compassion you hadn't earned. He shut his eyes. "Forgive me," he whispered, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. There was a hand on the back of his neck, and the brush of lips on his bowed forehead. 

"I just did," Hal whispered back. "Now go home."

He was all the way in the car before he heard the words Hal had spoken, in between the part about getting what you didn't ask for and _emotionally retarded fascist ninja_ , which was an overstatement on four counts, but even he recognized that tonight was probably not the time to fight that battle. His chest felt too tight. _In love_. Hal had said those words like it was the most obvious, the most casual observation in the world, and every shivering nerve in Bruce's body was saying, _really? Is that the word? Is that it? That?_

He drove carefully all the way back to Gotham, especially in the driving rain, at least five miles under the speed limit at all times, as though this thing in his chest were too fragile to be transported, almost. He would not take any unnecessary risks tonight, not when his tomorrow was going to be so unexpectedly bright. He would wake to cleared skies and clean air and the promise of a phone call from Hal, and a new beginning. 

_Hey_ , Hal would say, and Bruce would try not to smile at the smoky-warm voice on the other end.

 _Hey_ , he would say back.


End file.
